自考英语翻译教材课文Lesson 2和lesson3

Lesson 2 The Story of My Life
The most important day I remember in all my life is the one on which my teacher, Anne Mansfield Sullivan, came to me. I am filled with wonder when I consider the immeasurable contrast between the two lives which it connects. It was the third of March, 1997, there months before I was seven years old.
On the afternoons of that eventful day, I stood on the porch, dumb, expectant. I guessed vaguely from my mother’s signs and from the hurrying to and fro in the house that something unusual was about to happen, so I went to the door and waited on the steps. The afternoon sun penetrated the mass of honeysuckle that covered the porch, and fell on my upturned face. My fingers lingered almost unconsciously on the familiar leaves and blossoms which had just come forth to greet the sweet southern spring. I did not know what the future held of marvel or surprise for me. Anger and bitterness had preyed upon me continually for weeks and a deep languor had succeeded this passionate struggle.
Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in, and they great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with plummet and sounding-line and you waited with beating heart of something to happen? I was like that ship before my education began, only I was without compass or sounding-line, and had no way of knowing how near the harbour was. “light! Give me light!” was the wordless cry of my soul, and the light of love shone on me in that very hour.
Lesson 3 My Life and Literature
a few days ago, a Japanese author asked me how I was able to appreciate authors and books of so many different schools. I replied, ‘I am not ‘man of letters’’ , nor do I belong to any particular school. Thus I am not restricted in any way.”Then he asked me, “you’ve written many, many books. How can you say you’ re not a man of letters?” I replied, “as long as I’m not a man of letter, I ‘m not subject to any of the rules of literature. Nor do I have to be afraid of being thrown out of any literary circles.”What are my enemies? “all outmoded traditional thinking; any irrational system which obstructs social progress or human development; any force which tramples on love—all these things are my enemies.” All my books were written with the express purpose of denouncing, exposing and striking out at these enemies of mine.
In the twenty years between 1929 and 1948, I wrote very quickly and wrote a great deal. I felt as if my mind was being whipped, as if my mind was being whipped, as if a ghost had commandeered my pen and was writing to readdress the injustices it had suffered. I both cried and laughed along with my principal characters, and often despondently scratched my head.
When I say that I write like I live, and that the highest ideal a work of literature can attain is to be at one with life, and that an author should be able to identify with his readers, I basically mean that books and their authors should never tell lies.
I’ve also said recently on another occasion that the highest state to which art can attain is artlessness. When I was arguing this point with a friend several decades ago, I said, “physically attractive people don’t need heavy make-up. Though my writing resembles my ugly monster, it actually looks a little better without any embellishment.” His reply was, “literary works have stood the test of time because of the skill with which they were written. Who today really cares about the details of what life was like a hundred years ago?”I disagree. Readers are moved by the life reflected in a story and the fate of the chief characters. This means I oppose fabrication, deception and flowery language. What I hate most are those glory-seeking writers who deceive the public with their lies.。